


Tiny!Tim au

by wintersnight



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Kid Tim Drake, Nightwing!Dick, Some angst, Tiny!Tim au, bruce wayne is batdad, from tumblr, robin!jason, tim drake is a bad ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: Once upon a time, my babe, Titans_R_Us asked me to write a little bit about a 'what-if' au from Tumblr. The chapters are pretty much what-if the Batfam found little Tim Drake early. I wrote the first chapter and thought that would be the end of that, but Anons sent me asks for more, so I eventually did the others too. I'm finally moving them all here in once place for someone that wanted them together, so I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake, Jason Todd & Tim Drake
Comments: 66
Kudos: 1014





	1. Tiny!Tim and the Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It seems,” the butler finally speaks loud enough to be to them, “young Timothy has been left to his own devices and has not answered any phone calls from his parents.” Sliding on his driving gloves, the calm, cool, and collected is just the tiniest bit askew, “they have requested I go check on the boy, just to be certain he hasn’t run against any difficulties.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing soulmate, Titans was sick at the time and asked for something like this <3
> 
> I wrote a drabble once about the first time Bruce gets hurts because of Robin!Jason is during a fight with Killer Croc, in which B throws his second Robin out of harm's way and fractures his leg. Nightwing comes in from the Titans to patrol with the new Robin while B heals up, and it's really heartwarming how they kind of bond while they patrol together. 
> 
> I've used this theme in a few of my other drabbles and such (like the de-aged Jason thing in the second Distractions fic pile), so that's a bit of backstory for this au.

When the only people out in Gotham after nightfall are the vigilantes, you know it’s time _to go_. N and Robin had hit mid-town before their legs were completely numb to all sensation and the clench of his stomach, the almost _oops_ with his zip line was countered by Nightwing’s uncanny _sixth sense_.

The second time his predecessor caught him by the back of his cape before an _epic_ fail on the roof of the Wallstone (even through the gloves he can’t feel his _hands_ well enough to hold the zip line), they agree wholeheartedly it’s time to _call it a night_. Like he’s reading their _minds_ (or he just _knows_ his boys), B already sent the big car down to an alleyway for their pick-up. The heater is blasting when they duck inside, limbs tingling back to life before N revs the engine and they take off into the night.

**

The next afternoon, Alfred Pennyworth hangs-up the Manor telephone and returns to the kitchen, his back a little stiffer than normal.

Looking up from the incredibly _stupid_ “Arctic Academy” assignments for snow days, Jay’s eyebrow cocks up while Dick manages to stir from huddled around his bowl of cereal. Reading the paper and drinking his coffee, B lets the butler go through his own particular set of _motions_ before deciding to intervene. He still taps his cane a little on his walking cast, just so Alfred _knows_.

The offended muttering while the butler moves around the kitchen, putting sundries away, removing his apron, going for his coat, hat, and scarf.

“It seems,” the butler finally speaks loud enough to be _to them_ , “young Timothy has been left to his own devices and has not answered any phone calls from his parents.” Sliding on his driving gloves, the calm, cool, and collected is just the tiniest bit _askew_ , “they have requested I go check on the boy, just to be certain he hasn’t run against any _difficulties_.”

Timothy?

Timothy.

“Timmy from down the road?” Jason’s brows furrow, “he’s only a fucking _kid_. You ain’t telling me they left him _alone_ , right?”

The silence answers _that_.

B’s already ninja folded the newspaper in perfect lines, standing to retrieve his own coat from the mudroom, hobbling quickly for someone with a broken leg. “It’s literally _six_ outside, Alfred. I’ll go. Do me a favor and check the scans running in the Cave on the last file Question sent. I’d like to know what he’s gotten into now.”

“I shall, Sir,” Alfred hums back, watching Master Bruce turn into _concerned parent_ while he bundles up against the frigid cold.

B only has to say one word.

“Boys?”

Dick is downing his milk with more _wake-up_ than five minutes ago. He’s due back in the Haven by tomorrow night to start his next round of _Officer Grayson Solves Them All_ , so that gives him plenty of time to check on Timmy before heading back.

Jason scribbles a few more notes, rising from his chair to bend over for the last few lines of the book review.

The heat works double-time, all three frozen to the _bone_ without ever leaving the garage.

Even more disturbing is the complete serenity of Drake Manor when they start to fight through the snow to get up the drive.

( _Damn. Should have brought the big car._ )

The scene is unmarked, _pristine_ , just a little tell on how long it had been since someone had been in…or out.

Leaving the car running warm, Bruce is out and taking the foot-deep drifts like he takes on criminals as Batman– without a _pause_.

Dick and Jason are hot on his heels, eyes taking in the surroundings, the contingencies, the environment they might be following him into–

( _Robin’s instinct_ )

The porch is finally somewhat free of snow’s terrible grip where B knocks with a gloved hand, ready to shout in case the young boy was upstairs.

The front door, however, pops softly, heavily, open under his knuckles.

All three of them stop, step back, and prep.

The motion is subtle, a flick of two fingers with the hand not holding on to his cane, and Jason is vaulting off the porch like he’s not a _bit_ freezin’ his nuts off, rounding the house to look for any clues there might be a–

_Jackpot_.

One window is cracked open upstairs, and he’s already wrapped a hand around the drain pipe to scurry up.

Dick is going around the other side, still seeing no other tracks, no broken _anything_. Nothing through the windows except a pristine sitting room, an elaborate formal dining room, and the kitchen as he rounds to the back of the house.

The light makes his stop immediately to peer in, already trying to jimmie the window open. On the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, is a tiny bundle of a boy, every muscle drooping, face buried in his upraised arms.

From this vantage, Dick can’t tell if he’s even _breathing_.

“Get inside!” He yells out, knocking on the glass to see if the kid moves.

( _He doesn’t_.)

And the window is finally shoved up once he can get his fingers into the right places to trip the locks, and Dick Grayson is through the window _fast_ , just in time for B to come through the kitchen door, and Jay to drop down from a vent overhead.

“Tim? Tim!”

The converge around the bundled boy, just a messy mop of dark hair peeping through the canary yellow fuzzy blanket.

It’s not until B automatically reaches out that the head flops to the side and dull blue eyes blink up at them hazily.

“Mister…Mister Wayne?” Nasilly and hoarse, Tim Drake is pale in the face with only dark rose to his cheeks, tip of his runny nose, and forehead. “What are…what are you doing here?”

“How long have you been by yourself?!” Dick demands gently, pulling a glove off to put a hand on the kid’s forehead, his pounding heart finally easing down slightly now that Tim has actually _moved_.

“Mrs. Mac couldn’t get through the weather,” the young boy yawns, letting his head drop forward a little into Dick’s cool palm. “S’ okay. I’ve got plenty of stuff to eat and–”

A hard cough rattles his chest a little, and he ducks his head out from under Dick’s hand to bury his face in his blanket.

Jay goes around to close the window Dick left open, noting the thermostat is set at 61 degrees, and nudges B’s shoulder just _slightly_.

The exchanged look is the very same _nope, not okay_ while Dick just _gives in_ to his instinct and eases the coughing boy into his lap to cuddle.

Tim was too sick, too tired, too _everything_ to really notice the cool outer material of Dick’s coat was against his cheek, and the hand moving in soothing circles on his back felt nice, _so nice_.

“What’s the plan, Boss?”

B is already pulling out his phone, making a quick call. Jay gives a brusk nod and affectionately ruffles Tim’s messy hair. The big, watery eyes look back up at him blearily around Dick’s coat, and Tim smiles gently.

“Hi Jay. Did you come to play video games with me?”

At the hopeful note in the kid’s tone, Jay completely pretends his heart isn’t breaking open _wide_. Instead, he crouches down (just like he’s _Robin_ ) and tries to make himself smirk so he don’t let Timmy know how _ungodly_ _pissed off_ he is.

“Can’t stay, Baby Bird, but howz ‘bout ya come back ta the Manor with me n’ B n’ Dickie, yeah? We’ll play some games there n’ get some good eats, you feel me?”

_That_ seem to perk Tim up a little, enough to get the boy to at least sit up in Dick’s lap on his own, “can I? I mean, I can? I mean, is that okay?”

His eyes go to B, who is moving smoothly instead of limping heavily when the other line finally picks up. Tim buries himself a little deeper in Dick’s coat when Mister Wayne crosses the room to talk in a very low, deep tone.

Almost a _growl_.

“It’s totally fine, Timmers,” Jay tries to grin, laugh it off a little so the kid doesn’t think anything is _wrong_ (even though it is, all of this _fuckery_ is), “Alfred was gonna come getcha ta hang out since it’s a snow day.”

“Mister…Mister Pennyworth is so…nice,” Tim replies with another puppy yawn that completely entrances Dick since it’s just _too_ adorable for words.

“Yes, he is, Timmy. And he very, _very_ much would like it if you would come to stay with us for a few days, okay? Jay will go upstairs and pack you some clothes, we’ll wrap a few more blankets around you, and we’ll go have some nice soup and watch some awesome movies between video game rounds.”

“I would love that, thank-you, Dick.” He tries to be enthusiastic, tries to be _happy_ , but he’s so achy and sore and tired. His throat is scratchy and his belly rumbling with hunger under the blanket. “But…but could I get up and get my soup out of the microwave? I’m not sure how long it’s been in there, and I should put it in the fridge for next time.”

And, well, _no Timmy_ , you’re probably not going to escape that hold.

Ever.

Jay grins wider when he sees Dick reflexively tighten down for the _long haul_.

“Don’t gotta worry ‘bout it, Timmers. Just let Dickie getcha ready ta go outside. ‘S cold as a motherfucking _bitch_ , lemme tell ya, and we don’t wanna letcha get any sicker, you feel me?”

“Little Wing! Language!”

“Aw, hell with it, Dickie. He’s a smartie, didn’t cha know?”

“It’s…I’m not, I mean, I’m okay, really. I can take care of myself.” The boy looks a slightly panicky, his small hands peeping through his blanket burrito to tighten down on the edges. “You don’t have to do anything at all! I promise. I won’t be any trouble–”

“You are _never_ trouble,” B interrupts darkly, finally finishing his conversation, and has returned to the trio without a _sound_. “And we’re glad to have you stay with us.”

Those eyes get more moist, his nose nudges down into the blanket, his forehead turning into Dick’s jacket.

“After you’re feeling _better_ , I’m going to give you the phone number to the Manor to keep in your room at all times.” B crouches down strangely with the cast, trading places with Jason, who is already moving out of the kitchen and strafing up the massive staircase to start packing their sick Baby Bird a bag.

“O-…Okay,” the boy finally looks up at B’s dark eyes.

“If you’re ever here alone and you need someone for _any reason_ , you need to call me. From now on, Tim, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mister Wayne.”

“Bruce.”

“Yes, Bruce.”

“That’s a good boy,” and the ruffle to his hair is absurdly gentle, making Tim ease down on his death-grip and raise his head up enough to smile.

And later, once he’s in the sitting room of the Manor with old X-Men cartoon reruns on the television, snuggled down in Dick’s lap with fresh pjs, a belly full of Mister Alfred’s soup, and already riding the train to sleep with fever-reducers and a thick blanket to keep him warm, his eyes go from Dick’s easy smile and affectionate eyes, to the absent hand Jay has on his ankle while he works through more of the problems on his Artic Academy paperwork, to B working quietly on a tablet while he sips at his coffee and occasionally looks up to make sure his boy are all right, Tim thinks how nice it would be…

To be part of their family.


	2. Tiny!Tim and the Wrong Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mister Alfred is going to be real mad,_ little Timmy Drake thinks, dazed as he looks around, _because the bus can’t make it to my house if the side is torn out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the third short thing I wrote for this au, but chronologically it comes before the next chapter. I just really enjoy young Tim being a bad ass trying to be like his favorite vigilantes <3
> 
> I also enjoy Bruce Wayne coming to get him and being all _BatDad_ lol

_Mister Alfred is going to be real mad_ , little Timmy Drake thinks, dazed as he looks around, _because the bus can’t make it to my house if the side is torn out._

The initial hit knocked the bus completely on the side, knocking him into the window where he hit his head pretty hard. For a few minutes after the screaming stopped and everything was still, he thought he might throw-up because it _hurt_. Finally righting himself, the pain in his head subsides as his heart starts pounding so so _so_ fast, making it taste gross in the back of his mouth.

Someone is groaning close to him and someone else is crying. It smells like important things are burning.

Miss May, his first grade teacher, had already covered what to do in case of a villain attack at school. Mr. Mike, the bus driver, had shown them all the emergency exits, where the first-aid kit is, and how to use the extinguisher at the beginning of the year.

None of it helps his shaky, stinging hands, and it’s hard to get to the front when fear is chasing him in the panicked scramble over the seats and broken glass since the bus is on it’s side in the middle of the street in downtown Gotham.

Some of the glass cuts into his knees and hands, but–but he can’t stop! He’s got to think like ( _Robin_ ) Jay and get to supplies, put the fire out before it can get to the gas tank. If he doesn’t, the whole bus could explode, and all the kids are still on the bus, whimpering and scared. Even the older kids. None of them are moving, none of them know what to _do_.

So. So, he needs a plan!

He needs to put out the fire and get everyone off the bus!

His fingers scrabble with the latches, and he’s perched precariously with one foot on the big steering wheel and the other on the dashboard. The big storage space in the front of the bus, above the jagged windshield finally gives with a metal groan and Tim blinks tears out of his eyes, bites down on his lower lip, and tries, _tries so hard_ , to stop shaking enough that he can get the fire extinguisher out without falling over Mr. Mike’s body sprawled on the steps below him.

He’s trying to concentrate, trying to think past the twisted metal of what used to be his ride, trying to think about Mister Alfred in the front seat of the big, shiny car with Jay souched in the back, picked up from big school already, just waiting for him since he goes to Wayne Manor on days when Mrs. Mac isn’t scheduled to come.

It’s been almost a year now since they’d found him sick and achy during a bad storm when Mrs. Mac couldn’t make it out. Since then, he’s been meeting a sleek car parked by the bus stop so he wouldn’t have to walk all the way home. On days Mrs. Mac wouldn’t be coming, it was a given he’d be eating dinner and doing his homework at Wayne Manor. Most times, he’d be directed to a room upstairs when it was late. Mr. Wayne would tell him he might as well stay the night, and let Alfred drop him off at the bus stop in the morning.

On the usual day, Jay and Alfred would talk to him about school during the ride, make him warm when he’s included in the conversation and questions are asked about his assignments. During dinner Mister Wayne ( _“Just Bruce is okay, Tim.” “Okay, Mr. Bruce.” “Well. That’s better than nothing.”_ ) would be there coming back from his office with that scrunchy line between his eyebrows.

( _Timmy thinks it’s really the Batman trying to get out. It might be silly, but he imagines it kind of like Sailor Moon. Mr. Bruce holds up his utility belt or a special Batarang, and then transforms into the Batman!_ )

Today, he isn’t going to meet that car to tell Jay and Alfred about school.

Instead, he’s going to use _both hands_ to squeeze the difficult trigger on the fire extinguisher, get bopped by it before white foam coats the flames, and other kids are peeking over the seats at him and the smouldering fire.

Instead, he holds on to it desperately with both arms once the fire is out and makes himself think about how _Batman_ sounds when he tells the bad guys to _let the hostages go_ , _give up or_ ** _else_** _._ Thinking about Batman gives Timmy enough strength to turn on all those terrified expressions and grit his teeth before he opens his mouth to start _yelling_ , yelling at the top of his _lungs_ , for everyone to get out the emergency door in the back.

 _“Get out right now! Get out or else I’m gonna_ **_tell_ ** _. I’m gonna tell_ **_all_ ** _your moms and dads! And you’re going to be in so much_ **_trouble_** _.”_

That really does the trick and heads pop up immediately at the mention of _trouble_.

Little Timmy points at the only accessible exit, the big door at the back of the overturned bus since one emergency window is literally blocked by the street and the other is over their heads. The front entrance is blocked by Mr. Mike, so there’s no way they’re getting out there either. The only way to go is out the back, and he starts shoving kids that way while brandishing the fire extinguisher and yelling even more.

He struggles to get over the seats again, trying to push the bigger kids to the back, away from the ripped metal and broken glass. Once the bigger ones start moving, getting the younger ones up and over the seats, Timmy goes back to pull at Mr. Mike still lying halfway down the steps where he landed when the bazooka Two-Face was holding exploded into rush hour traffic.

Tim is really, _really_ relieved Mr. Mike’s eyes are open this time, and the adult is struggling to stand up, eyes dazedly looking around for the other kids he’s in charge of seeing home safely. 

Timmy grabs his hand when his legs seem kind of wobbly and walks him to the back of the broken bus, assuring the driver he’s already gotten most of the kids out the back because at least _he_ was paying attention when they were going over emergency procedures. He’s sure Mr. Mike will be super proud when his head isn’t bleeding anymore.

The other kids are huddled around a Fire and Rescue Squad already on site, and Mr. Mike leans on him a little the whole time they cross the chaotic streets.

Automatic gunfire rips through the daytime scramble of screaming civilians, fire and rescue trying to put out flames and pry people out of their cars, trying to contain the madness.

Two-Face is standing up out of the sunroof of his getaway car, Tommy gun going off in rapid bursts while he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“It’s a good day for a trip to downtown! Love ya, Gotham! _”_

And someone… _someone_ has to do something!

( _Maybe be can follow and-and try to keep them from getting away until Bruce and Jay–_ no, _Batman and Robin–can get here!_ )

He still has the fire extinguisher held tightly in one arm while he slips his hand out of Mr. Mike’s when the paramedics grab the injured bus driver and herd the other kids inside Gotham Water Works to get the civilians away from the rampaging villain, standard protocol really.

But Timmy is so _small_ , and he can fit in some of the best places. He can dart to the side and hide in the right ways so nobody even _sees him._

It’s easy to slip away from the group, leaving the fire extinguisher in his place to scramble up the pipe drain to the fire escape where he can see better.

He still has his backpack, so he has pepper spray, his homework, and something he might have _accidentally_ taken from one of the crime scenes in Gotham when he was out on his own.

( _Jay never has to know it’s one of Robin’s. None of them ever have to know he figured it out._ )

He huffs as he climbs up the fire escape with shaky arms and sweaty hands, his knees trembly and his belly fluttering. He thinks about just reaching up to grab the next rung, to keep stepping _up_ , tries to keep his mind on the next step up instead of getting scared at how high he’s climbing. He thinks about how _Robin_ had to have been scared his first time on the rooftops too, how scared _Batman_ must have been back when he’d first started out.

It’s the strength he imagines they must have had to overcome their fears and still leap out into the night, how terrified they must have been against some of the worst criminals the first time, how they didn’t ever _stop_ when people were in danger. It’s really _their_ strength that gets him up to the first floor on wobbly legs. It’s their strength that makes him breathe, keeps him from running away when people on the street could be in trouble.

He runs across to look down over the other side, watches as the madman laughs more and fires his guns in the air, screaming at Gotham because “ _here’s_ your downtown beautification!”

Timmy gasps for breath, ducks down when he hears the soft metallic _pings_ all around him.

In the alley next to where Two-Face’s goons are moving toward Gotham Bank & Trust, going to scare the patrons and get the room ready for the big boss’s dramatic entrance, the little boy flings his backpack off and digs around inside.

The bottom has a little lose thread, something he’d noticed keeps the two pieces of canvas sewn together. Once it started unravelling, he could fit his finger into a nice little pocket he’d made–

–for the thing he’s going to need if he’s going to try keeping Two-Face from getting away until Batman and Robin come to their rescue. Dangerous-looking and _heavy_ , the Batarang is heavy in his hand when it’s folded closed.

In his own room, after Mrs. Mac left for the night and he was all by himself, he’d flip it around, flip it open, pretend he was standing by Batman and Robin, fighting the good fight with them! The plastic black mask from last year’s Zorro costume and the blanket off his bed tied around his neck, all of it made him feel _real_.

But this…this is more real than that, more _important_.

He needs to help them, he needs to stop the bad guy from getting away to hurt more people. He needs to–

( _be_ _a hero_ )

–have a plan.

Luckily, the cheap mask is in the hidden pocket along with the Batarang, but putting it on out here with one of the Rogue Gallery’s fearsome bad guys right below him makes it so much more _important_ than when he was playing at being a hero in his room. The mask is more than plastic and string, more than _playing_.

He feels _taller_ , _stronger_ , like he can do what he needs to do, like he’s wearing a cape and gloves and gauntlets. Like he’s standing between the people of Gotham and those Tommy guns.

( _I have to keep Two-Face from getting away. Just until Batman and Robin can get here. I have to be brave, I have to do this!_ )

His jaw clenches _tight_ , and little Timmy Drake puts his backpack back on quickly, slides the Batarang in the back of his jeans so it’s easy to reach, and throws himself on the ladder going back down to street level.

He drops the last two or so feet and manages not to fall too hard or draw attention to himself, keeps his eye on the car that has screeched to a halt right by bank. Two-Face has stopped shooting, is reloading the Tommy gun while he steps out of the car, and looks like he’s about to make a grand entrance.

With his heart beating in his throat, wishing he hadn’t lost his cellphone when the bus was hit, Timmy peeks around the wall of the alleyway, watches everyone pile out of the car and move to the front doors. His mouth is dry, his knees are a little wobbly still, but it’s going to be _okay_.

Batman and Robin have to be on the way.

**

Two-Face’s goons throw the door to the bank open _wide_ for him, and all of them walk inside.

It’s the chance he needs to sneak out of the alley to the getaway car, fighting down the panic and bitter taste of bile in the back of his mouth.

The soft sigh when he flips open the Batarang gives him courage, reminds him that he can do this. He _has_ to do this.

Crouching down, he uses both hands to drive the Batarang into the back tire as _hard_ as he _can_ , grunting with the effort to get it through to puncture.

The scratches in his palms _hurt_ because he’s gripping the Batarang so hard, but he’s _helping_ Batman and Robin, so it’ll all be okay.

For good measure he moves to the front and does the same, straining with the effort, eyes watery because his hands hurt more now, but he makes himself sniffle softly and blink rapidly while the air hisses out.

He flips the Batarang closed and turns to run back to his alley before the bad guys come out and catch him. He thinks he’s home _free_ , the car is disabled, and there’s no one out on the street to get shot at.

He _did it!_

Timmy gets one foot out to run, grinning below the mask and his heart pounding in his chest, happy that he actually _helped_.

…until a hand snatches his backpack and pulls him right off his feet, dangling him from an angry grip.

“ _Why you little_!”

His heart slams against his rib cage, breath choking him for an important second.

_Caught!_

“Lemme go!” while he kicks his feet uselessly, throws his arms out, trying to get down, get _away_ before Two-Face comes out of that bank.

“D’ ya have any idea what he’s gonna do ta ya when he sees this?” The angry adult yells in his face. The small boy gasps at the sour smell of the masked man’s breath, hands rough and bruising, shaking him hard, snapping his head back on his fragile neck. “He’s gonna make an _example_ outta ya, kid.”

The mask on his face almost falls off with the shaking, and fear leaps into his mouth again, coppery for real because he’s bitten his tongue.

His legs are wobbly when the goon pretty much drops him back to the ground, shoves him around the car with a hand on the back of his neck, holding him there for the terrifying gangster about to come out of the bank they’ve robbed and see what’s done to their getaway car.

The sneer on the good half of the villain’s face is terrifying, but Timmy forces his legs to hold him up, even with the other thug’s hand on the back of his neck pushing him down.

“Looks like we got us a _hero_ , boys. Another fucking _mask_.”

A masked goon to the gangster’s right hand, steps up, gun pointed at the sky. His eyes shift from Two-Face to the kid, a bag of money in his other hand.

“Looks like he’s just a kid, boss. They recruiting from kindergarten now?”

Timmy presses his lips together to keep from snapping back because he’s in _first grade_ you jerk! Instead, he has to make them underestimate him, not make them mad enough to hurt him or use him as a hostage when Batman and Robin appear.

The sharp lapels on Two-Face’s suit are crisp and clean over the holster Tim can see underneath when the villain leans down to put them face-to-face, the distorted eye somehow still seeing him, staring him down, looking at him like he isn’t even _wearing_ a mask.

“I’ve got to tell you, squirt, mask isn’t a good look for you. That is just going to get you in _trouble_.” A finger pokes into his chest to emphasize the _point_ , and he can’t recoil from the touch because the other goon behind him grips the back of his neck harder in warning.

Even if his mouth dry, the little boy still sucks in a deep breath, still tries to be _strong_ , keep everyone busy until the heroes get here without getting himself deeper into hot water. “Y-you’re stealing! And-and people need their money! They might lose their houses if you take it!”

The laugh is twisted and _wrong_ , making his knees shake, and his instincts screaming at him to _runrunrun_!

But he can’t, the hand on the back of his neck is holding him in place, and he’s _surrounded_.

“Kid…you need to learn how the world really _works_ ,” and the villain straightens up, mouth twisting up in a grotesque half _smile_. A hand disappears in his pocket, comes out with–

– _the coin_.

Tim’s eyes are drawn to the metal slipping over Two-Face’s fingers, the movement hypnotic in the middle of a deserted Gotham street.

( _Please, please, please hurry. Please hurry_.)

But he’s not tossing the coin yet, so-so it could still be okay!

“You look around this city, and what do you see? All those criminals locked up? For what, a few _weeks?_ And then they’re out, playing the same old game. Just like _us_ ,” and the coin pauses between two fingers. “And the regular people, just like _you_ and your precious little _family_ , are scurrying like _cockroaches_ between bombs and muggings and toxic gas, trying to make it through another day.”

Two-Face is getting angrier and meaner, his snarling lip and shark-like smile, the coin balanced precariously between his fingers.

“And all of it? All of it is just about _chance_ , kid.”

Timmy swallows when expert fingers nudge the coin flat on top of the thumb, and his stomach abruptly _drops_.

“It’s 50/50 all around. Whether the next bomb gets you, the next prison break, the next car crash, the next robbery. It’s all a matter of _chance_.”

The coin trembles in Timmy’s peripheral, and he’s holding on to the folded Batarang tucked into his sleeve so hard his hand is starting to hurt.

( _He doesn’t want to use it. He doesn’t want to shove it in Two-Face’s knee to give himself enough time to run. He won’t have to use it because Batman and Robin are going to save him._ )

But Two-Face is half smiling again, reaching in his jacket for the gun in his holster, ignoring the scream of sirens in the air. One of his henchmen utter a soft, desperate “ _boss?”_ that’s met with a quirked brow before the thug goes silent again.

“So, I’m going to give **you** a _chance_ , kiddo, and I’m going to be real fair about it, see?” The half smile is anything but nice, is scary enough to make his knees weak again because he really doesn’t believe that.

“I’m going to flip this coin.”

And the scratched side glints in the sun between the gangster’s fingers.

“If it lands on heads, then I’m going to shoot you in the head, clean and quick. You won’t even feel it. But if it lands on tails, then I’m going to shoot you in the stomach. And that, kid, is gonna hurt _real bad_. You’re going to die slow and painful.”

The manic grin widens as Two-Face drops the bag of money and reaches into his two-tone jacket to pull the handgun out of the holster, the barrel long and shiny as it emerges.

Timmy’s eyes go wide when the barrel is levelled with his forehead, feels the sob trapped somewhere in chest, feels his hands shaking with the Batarang in his sleeve, feels his eyes get wet behind the mask.

“Good luck,” is from the thug still holding him.

But Timmy doesn’t hear it, can only hope he’s strong enough, _fast_ enough to flip the Batarang out and stab Two-Face in the hand or thigh, can only hope he’s brave enough to save himself.

He can only hope Batman and Robin will get there in time.

His pulse beats in the back of his mouth when the resounding _ting_ is the coin being flipped up in the air. 

_They’re going to save the city. They’re going to save_ **_me_ ** _._

Because he _believes_ in them.

He _believes_.

Little Timmy Drake, clenches the Batarang, hiding behind his mask, squinches his eyes closed, bites down on his lip–

–and he _believes_.

It’s a breath, a gasp, a _moment_ when the coin is knocked out of the air in mid-flip by a Batarang with a crazy arc and a whole lot of _practice_.

Timmy hears Two-Face yelling in rage that the coin was knocked off course, but all of it is drowned out as vigilantes leap down from the sky like avenging angels in a rare, daytime appearance.

The Batman lands it right next to the villain and thug holding a little boy in the mask while Robin unfailingly rolls behind the line of thugs and takes most of the out with sheer momentum.

The other two get taken out with a combination of punches and kicks, making Timmy’s mouth drop open in sheer _awe_.

The Batman doesn’t even look at the thug holding him. One second the Dark Knight lands it, the next his arm is just somehow _extended_ and the man that _was_ holding Timmy is suddenly laying on the ground against the getaway car with his eyes lolling in the back of his head.

The sudden lack of support makes little Timmy fall down on his butt, legs still quivery with fear, watching with wide eyes as the frightening vigilante raises a gauntleted forearm, the spikes on it gleaming dangerously.

“Causing trouble again, Harvey?” Darkly growled low, the form in the Batsuit just as imposing, just as _terrifying_ in person as in some of his blurry pictures against the dark Gotham night.

Subtle but pointed, the vigilante puts himself in front of the little boy that has slumped to the ground, a flip of the cape hides him from sight, gives him a moment to shake, and make sure his mask is still in place.

The villain’s laugh is terrifying, in the same way he said _shoot you in the head_ without even pausing.

“You know us, _Bats_. We like to stay front and center!”

He loses the banter while the other thugs go down and the fight between Batman and Two-Face starts with the gun knocked away in the first sweeping backhand. He doesn’t notice when Robin leaps up on the trunk of the getaway car because he’s trying to gasp in a shaky breaths, watching the Batman move on the offense, punches emphasized with meaty sounds as they land on the villain’s face.

Robin is in front of him so _fast_ , grabbing him up in both arms like a baby, and sprinting away from the scene to duck them back in the alley to be away from the ensuing fight.

“Kid, _kid_ ,” shakes him because even with the tunic and boots, the mask and utility belt, he _knows_. “Ya hurt? Two-Face rough ya up?”

Robin is putting him down in the alley, quickly checking him for injuries, winces at the cuts on his palms from the broken glass and sharp metal on his overturned bus. Still in Timmy’s other hand is the folded Batarang, and Timmy doesn’t need to see the raised eyebrow obscured by the mask to know it’s _there_.

“I-I needed it. The Batarang. The tires– I…I couldn’t let them get away until you got here.” And now that the gun isn’t pointed at his head, his eyes get hot and wet, his lower lip trembling at the fear and adrenaline still coursing through him.

When Robin just blinks down at him, he expects the Batarang to get taken away and maybe a quick, stern lecture about stealing.

But Robin just shakes his head a little and a crooked smile cuts across his face, a low chuckle when he replies, “I might know something about that. All right, stay here. I’ll come getcha after he’s down fer the count. Looks like Batman needs Robin right about now,” and the Boy Wonder salutes him with two fingers (like a _hero_ ) and takes off out of the alley to rejoin the fight.

Once he feels like he can stand without falling over, little Timmy peeks from around the corner, his heart _pounding_ as he watches the way they work together, the way Robin uses Batman’s back to propel him into giving Two-Face an amazingly effective punch! Right to the distorted side of his face!

And when Two-Face picks up the Tommy gun again to try for another shot, Robin is the one throwing a Batarang to knock the gun away, back-to-back with the Batman while smoke pellets hit the ground at the feet of the thugs trying to get back up.

Batman doesn’t waste a _second_ , turning with Robin to face the gangster again and deliver a vicious uppercut with a follow-up punch to the solar plexus. At the same time, Robin jumps up, both feet knocking two thugs out colder than the pellets.

( _Batman needs Robin…_ )

It’s so amazing to watch, his mouth dropping open in wonder as the Caped Crusaders move like water and wind, in perfect sync, ducking and dodging around one another like they’ve always worked together, like they’re a team, and it makes his chest feel tight, so tight, but not in a bad way when things are terrifying and there’s nowhere _safe_ –

( _except for Wayne Manor_ )

–when living in Gotham is always, _always_ so dangerous. But watching them, biting down on his lip, he forgets about how much his hands hurt, how scared he’d been when Two-Face was going to shoot him. He gets to be relieved enough for his knees to wobble, for his eyes to get hot and spill over just a little.

The crime fighters effortlessly put Two-Face and his goons down on the ground just as the GCPD’s mobile unit hit the scene to surround the perimeter.

Little Timmy pulls the mask off, wiping at his wet eyes as Commissioner Gordon approaches the downed villain and victorious vigilantes first, flanked by his team who are already fanning out to start rounding up the bad guys.

Robin glances over, looking for him, and Timmy shrinks back a little when Robin goes _still_. The Boy Wonder straightens up and subtly tugs on the side of Batman’s cape.

The cowl turns, and then follows Robin’s line of sight to the little boy standing in the alley that had been in the middle of the fray, that could have been seriously hurt by Two-Face…

Batman doesn’t make even a _tic_ but a gloved hand squeezes Robin’s wrist as he turns back to Gordon to finish the details, fast and efficient.

( _Faster than he had before he’d seen Tim Drake in the mouth of the alley, realized their favorite neighbor had been facing down on of Gotham’s worst criminals_. _It’s their little Tim and no way can he explain to Jim, the police, or anyone else why Batman would be carrying a small boy with him to fly through Gotham. He’d need his daytime identity. Fast._ )

Before Timmy can try to scramble back up the fire escape, two uniformed police officers stumble upon him and immediately start yelling for medics.

 _Uh-oh_.

The _bang_ is grapples firing and the Dynamic Duo taking to the rooftops, leaving Gotham’s finest to clean up the mess and latch on to the young boy in the alley, pulling him toward the emergency crews setting up just outside the perimeter.

( _He’s feeling a little woozy, his legs only half-working, so maybe…maybe it’s a good idea to see the paramedics after all_.)

And even with all the yelling and scrambling movement, Timmy is a little _dazed_ , watching Batman and Robin take to the rooftops, his heart in his wet eyes.

The detectives that get him to an ambulance are nice, and so is the medic that looks at the scratches, some with glass that needs to come out.

The burn cream hurts, like _really_ hurts, and now that Batman and Robin are gone, he can let himself flinch a little. When she asks, he tells her the bus number a few streets over and how he’s glad everyone made it out okay. He just happened to get lost when everyone scrambled from it before it, you know, blew up or something.

He knows she’s not going to ask too many questions when she smiles gently down at him and bandages his hands. So, instead of asking to call a parent or guardian, she can drop him off to the Fire and Rescue Squad, and maybe he can slip away to catch a ride home without anyone asking being the wiser–

–which fails pretty epically when a disheveled Bruce Wayne comes straight at him through the crowd, Jason right on his heels.

( _Mr._ _Bruce’s waist is lumpy under his shirt. He must not have taken off the utility belt._ )

“Tim!” Mr. Bruce pushes to one side of the gurney he’s sitting on, and Jay pushes to the other, a hand just suddenly on the wrist the EMT isn’t wrapping up. But it’s nice when the hand is heavy on his shoulder instead of the back of his neck, pulling him against a broad chest.

(He can almost feel the yellow oval against his cheek)

“Tim! Alfred said your bus was _attacked_! I’m so glad I found you–”

“ _We_ , B,” Jason reminds him idly, looking down at Timmy with the _exact_ same smile–

( _Really is my Robin_ , Timmy thinks now that he can relax a little, thinks it’s funny how Batman and Robin are going to save him again.)

“Of _course_ , Jay, _we_ found you!”

“It’s…it’s okay,” he says lamely, one hand already worrying at the hem of Mr. Bruce’s wrinkled jacket, relaxing in the strong hold, trying to hide the fact he’s tearing up because now his hand and arms _hurt_. “Everyone got out, and Mr. Mike is going to be okay and Two-Face is going to Arkham and–”

“What’s ‘bout ya, Timmers?” Jay interrupts, staring down the EMT winding a final bandage around Tim’s hand, “lookit! Ya got hurt, didn’t ya? B, we gotta get ‘im home, you feel me? Looks like our guy needs some cookies n’ milk n’ a movie ta calm ‘im down.”

“We absolutely will, Jay. Alfred will be so relieved.” And Mr. Bruce’s hand in his hair is making him so sleepy, the nails scratching gently along his scalp so _nice_. “On the way home, you can call Dick, let him know what happened and Tim is okay.”

That makes Timmy smile because Dick likes to cuddle him, and he won’t even mind if he’s laying on his hurt arm because Dick’s cuddles are _the best_.

“Mr. Wayne,” one of the EMTs begins hesitantly, “this boy–”

“Is our neighbor. He’s staying with us while his parents are out of the country.” Mr. Bruce doesn’t miss a beat, already sliding an arm under Timmy’s knees. “We’re responsible for him.”

“Okay, well, here’s some extra bandages for his hands. All of his vitals are good and he’s not exhibiting signs of shock or further distress. Keep an eye on him anyway, just in case.”

“We certainly will. Thank-you for taking care of him,” and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to lift, pull Timmy against a broad, powerful chest while he’s talking, letting the little boy rest limply against him. Jay snags his backpack where he’d stashed his mask and Batarang, wondering if both would be gone by the time they got to the Manor.

It’s a credit as to how _awful_ Mr. Bruce is playing Brucie Wayne because he avoids the media instead of acting like he’s silly, another way of hiding the Batman away.

Jay paces beside them as they cut through a back alley to get out of the war zone caused by Two-Face’s impromptu bank visit.

With the gentle swaying and immeasurable strength holding him, Tim sinks further down into Mr. Bruce’s strength, not really hearing the low talk between them as they walk.

The Rolls is there between one blink and the next, Mr. Alfred ruffling his hair as he opens the back door.

“He got a little banged up in the scuffle today, Alfred. I think he’s more than deserved dessert.”

“You say that based merely for injuries sake, Master Bruce. I shall be the judge after we see how Master Timothy did on his spelling homework.”

“Ssorry, Mr. Alfred,” the little boy slurs, eyes-half mast, “the bus was late.”

Jay laughs a little and lays a warm palm on Timmy’s forehead, “Yeah, yeah. S’okay, Timmers. Long as yer in one piece, I’d say it’s been a good day.”

“Not mad?” But his eyes are fluttering closed already, and his little chest lifts in a _sigh_.

“At you, dear boy? _Never_ ,” and Mr. Alfred opens the back door with a small smile and fond eyes. Mr. Bruce is easy when he chuckles low and ducks down into the Rolls with Tim on his lap and Jay nudged up against his side.

The car moves slowly through the wrecked part of the city until they’re on the highway, heading to Wayne Manor, and the motion of the car lulls him closer and closer to sleep. His hands resting palm up on his legs, and Mr. Bruce a mass of strength around him.

“S’all good,Timmy,” and even though he’s starting to drift, he still hears Jay mutter, “ _don’t cha take on anymore baddies. Gonna gimmie a heart attack, you feel me?_ ”

B’s voice is soft when he murmurs back, “ _what was he doing there?”_

“ _Takin’ out Harv’s tires if ya can believe it.”_

“ _Somehow, I’m not really surprised_.” _Is less Mr. Bruce and more Batman._

“ _Ya know, B. It’s been a year. Maybe it’s time ta–”_

_“No. I mean, not yet, Jay. The longer he doesn’t know, the easier it will be to keep him safe.”_

_“Pfft. Whatevah ya say, Boss. Eventually, I ain’t gonna fit in the shorts no more. Then who’s gonna watch yer ass?”_

_“That’s not happening anytime soon. For the moment, we try to keep him away from escaped members of the Rogue Gallery.”_

_“I believe that is the most sound plan, Master Bruce.”_

_“Thank-you, Alfred. Maybe we can order some pizza for him tonight. What do you think?”_

_“Aw, c’mon, Alf! We gotta injured bird here.”_

_“Well. As much as I detest such ready-made slop, I supposed I shall allow it this time. As our young charge certainly deserves a reward for aiding Batman and Robin.”_

The soft shifting is Mr. Bruce laughing and as he drifts off, Timmy smiles to himself again.

He can already smell the pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few things:   
> I originally wrote this for my 800 Followers post on Tumblr because I got so many kind asks. The original post is [here](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/186923703082/for-800-followers-tinytim-and-the-wrong-bus) for anyone that wants to see them. The [800 Followers Masterpost ](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/186923814817/800-followers-masterpost) has a few other things.
> 
> Second, Tim is pretty young in this, but my daughter is six, so kids can do pretty crazy things! Not that I condone this for any child, but it's fiction, so go with it I guess, lol.


	3. Tiny!Tim and the Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got hurt,” is trembling and angry and his jaw clenches so hard he can barely get it out. “You went after the Riddler and you got hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based off some anon asks you can read on the [original post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/175290866612/tinytim-and-the-secret).
> 
> be warned for a bit of angst and some hurt/comfort

And sometimes, he feels _bad_ when his parents go away on an extended trip to a dig or an unveiling. He feels bad because it makes him _happy_ since his parents leaving for a while means he gets to stay with Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Alfred at nights instead of being home all alone. It means he gets to do his homework in the kitchen across the table from Jay, and can, you know, sometimes ask for his _help_ on the harder things (sometimes it makes him feel _more_ bad because he doesn’t need help, not really, but it’s so _nice_ when Jay scrunches up against his side and explains his way of solving a problem).

But, it’s the best, the absolute _best_ , when he asks Jay for help with his Reading homework because Jay’s voice is starting to get deeper like Mr. Bruce’s, and he reads out loud in such an easy, effortless way it makes Tim wanna snuggle down and let the rhythm roll over him.

And sometimes, after dinner, if he’s full and happy, he might fall asleep on his favorite couch in the downstairs lounge, but when he wakes up, he was always tucked in to “his” bed in “his” room, the one Mr. Bruce said would always be for him, so he would always have a place with them.

(Every time he comes over, his Spider-Man bedspread is there and his Sully slippers in the same place he left them last time he came over. Sometimes there’s new books. Sometimes there’s a few games on the desk, puzzles for him to solve! When he does solve them and explains to Mr. Bruce how he figured it all out, he likes how Mr. Bruce tries to hide his smile behind one hand while Jay’s eyes get all wide and surprised.)

Sometimes when he gets there, it’s just Mr. Alfred and Mr. Bruce. He just tells Tim that Jay is visiting Dick for help on a _project_ so they would just have a movie night without him. How does that sound?

And it’s _fine!_ Because Mr. Bruce is really nice and tries to be silly sometimes, bantering back and forth with Alfred or Jay or him, absently ruffling Jay’s hair and Tim’s immediately after.

But sometimes, if he’s lucky, very, _very_ lucky, Dick will come in from the Haven with the excuse of _checking up on_ his adopted Father and proclaimed “Little Brother.”

So he thinks he must be _so lucky_ because when he walks into the foyer of Wayne Manor, still in his uniform from the private school in the middle of Gotham, his backpack featuring Batman and Robin ( _of course he noticed Mr. Bruce smiling when he saw it_ ) still on his shoulders with homework he’d already finished, and _Dick_ is just _right there_.

He might squeak just a little because Mr. Alfred looked down at his shoes contemplatively, probably thinking no one in _existence_ could make a noise like that.

“Hey Timmy!”

And the little boy goes a little hazy when Dick says his name in that fond tone, already coming close so he can swing Tim up in his arms and hold him close for a hug.

“Hi Dick,” the younger boy returns shyly, but absolutely throws his arms around Dick’s massive shoulders, snuggles himself down into the hold.

**

But sometimes…sometimes he makes _mistakes_.

It’s after three when he has to get up out of bed and go downstairs. He woke up from a nightmare and can’t go back to sleep, so he needs a glass of milk and he doesn’t want to wake Mr. Alfred to get it.

When he finds Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Dick sitting at the kitchen table in sweats and t-shirts, looking bruised and battered and exhausted, his heart starts pounding so hard he think he might throw-up.

“Oh no,” and his eyes are getting hot and heavy, “no, no no.” His little fists clench hard by his sides, his small body trembling because they have bandages and bruises, because there’s blood and they got _hurt_.

Three heads immediately turn when they hear him, hear the pain in his voice, hear the thick quality to it.

“Shit,” is Jay’s immediate answer, one hand already up in a _hold-on a minute, you feel me?_ Kind of motion.

“Tim,” Bruce is half-rising out of his chair, obviously wincing while he does.

“Hey! We were just–um, we couldn’t sleep, Timmy, okay? It’s all right, we’re going back to bed–”

“You got hurt,” is trembling and angry and his jaw clenches so _hard_ he can barely get it out. “You went after the Riddler and you _got hurt_.”

And since he’s feeling _so many things_ , since his eyes are heavy and the first tears start to fall even though he’s trying to be a _big boy_ and hold it all in, he takes a shaky step forward and forgets that he probably shouldn’t say anything to give himself away.

By the absolute shock on their faces, he’s already messed that up.

“And I _knew_ where he was and I _didn’t tell you_ ,” is full of anger and recriminations, something so out of place from a kid his age, “I saw all the trucks heading down to the Narrows on my way home from school. I _knew_ it had to be the Riddler’s goons. I knew they had to be planning something _big_ because there were five whole trucks, and I _didn’t say anything_.”

His voice picks up the more he talks, the faster he gets, his eyes going wildly from the bandage around Dick’s hand to the one Jay’s cheek to the nasty scratches on the lower part of Mr. Bruce’s arm.

He’s almost screaming when the truth finally comes out, “you got _hurt_ because I was too scared to say anything! I know you didn’t want me to know your secret, so I didn’t tell, and-and it’s _my fault you got hurt!_ ”

And his chest hitches because he’s trying hard, _so hard_ , to stop crying, to keep the sobs in, “I didn’t want you to kick me out, so I kept your secret! I like being here, I _like_ –” _having a real home, a real family_ “–so I never told! And-and look what happened! _Look what I did!_ ”

And now that they know _he_ knows and that he didn’t give them the evidence they needed against the Riddler, they weren’t going to let him come back anyway. They couldn’t chance he would find out anything else, so he would have to go back to staying with Mrs. Mac, to promising he would never tell, to hearing the sound of the big car going past his empty, silent house on the way to the city. By not telling them everything, he was literally going to lose it all.

And the realization makes the small boy _choke_.

He doesn’t know he’s backing up until he hits the kitchen wall, slaps both tiny hands over his mouth with his wet eyes wide with horror at _what he’d just said_.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, muffled behind his hands, “I’m so sorry!”

He turns to run, manages to dart around Mr. Alfred still in his pajamas, coming down to see what the commotion is, doesn’t turn when his name is called.

Instead, he takes the stairs _fast_ , already throwing off his pajama shirt by the time he hits the door to his room and locks it. His hands shake when he throws on his clothes and shoes without socks, when he snags his backpack and shoves the window up in his room ( _not his anymore. They’re not going to be mean about because they’re so_ nice _putting up with him, dealing with him, being good to him, but of course he can’t come back, not when he just screwed everything up so badly_ ).

He’s sobbing without realizing it when he slides his arms into the straps and throws his small legs over the sill, feet trying to find purchase.

He’s crying so loud, his chest hitching with breath that he doesn’t hear the voices on the other side of the door calling to him, doesn’t know the small clicking sounds are someone picking the lock.

He gets to the window below his and has to turn because there’s no other purchase for him to find from there. With the small amount of rooms he’s got, he bends his knees, steadies himself with a hand on the side of the sill, and balances, calculates with the weight of the backpack and books.

When he finally _springs_ , leaping from the window to the tree right next to the Manor, he doesn’t really think about how far down it would be if he doesn’t get hold of the branch in time to catch himself. He really doesn’t think about anything else but leaving before they can tell him he can’t _come back_.

(Because that would be worse than not being able to after this. Seeing Dick’s face so sad and Mr. Bruce tight-lipped. Even Jay not looking him in the eye.)

The bark scratches his hands, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls himself up, small arms straining with his weight and the books on his back.

“Oh my God, Tim!” Dick’s voice sounds completely _panicked_.

The riotous, _“How in the utter fuck did he–!”_ is absolutely Jay.

But it’s Bruce Wayne that launches himself out the window almost too fast to be seen, dives like he’s in the cape, like one of his boys is in trouble ( _because one of his boys_ ** _is_** ) and easily snatches Tim in one arm, holds the little boy securely against his chest, and uses the other to swing around the branch to propel them back up to the third story window.

It’s easy and effortless, Mr. Bruce swinging them both back up to the window, holding on with one hand and him with the other, sliding his legs back in and ducking so they don’t hit their heads.

Dick doesn’t wait even a second, just scoops him out of Mr. Bruce’s arms and hugs him tight enough to hurt.

“D-Dick!” he whimpers but the vigilante just falls down on the messy bed and refuses to let up even a _little_.

“Timothy Jackson _Drake_ ,” is shaky but still makes him huddle tighter into Dick’s chest and neck, “if you _ever_ scare me like that again!”

“All right, Dick, calm down,” because Mr. Bruce has to keep order somehow. “He just scared himself, so we’re going to talk about this, _then_ everyone is going to bed.”

Mr. Bruce sits down on Dick’s right and Jay scowls while he plops down on the left.

“I…I’m _sorry_ , Dick. I’m _sorry._ ”

“Tol’ ya he was a smartie,” Jay just shakes his head and lays back, throws a forearm over his tired eyes.

“Thank-you, Master Jason. It would seem you have an eye for detail. I suppose those _detective_ lessons are coming along nicely,” Mr. Alfred comes through the doorway with a tray, still in his pajamas and robe. Coffee smells good but the tall glass of milk is for the shaky boy perched on Master Dick’s lap.

A thumbs-up is all Jason has to say in return.

“There now, Master Timothy. Time to be brave, yes? Here, your milk is quite ready.”

Wiping at his face, Tim climbs off Dick’s lap, stands to face the four looking at him expectantly, sniffling and staring down at his sneakers. Mr. Bruce reaches out for coffee and pats his head gently, pulls a Batman move to slide the hand down to his his backpack and slip it down his arms, puts it by the bed at the same time.

“So, you figured us out,” Dick leans in to take the next offered cup, and tries to duck a little so Timmy would look up at them.

Sucking in a breath, the little boy just nods, ashamed and shaky.

“How?” Mr. Bruce tries to make it gentle, but Timmy still flinches and has to wipe his face with his sleeve again. “It’s okay, Tim, but you need to tell us how you found out our identities.”

Biting down on his lip doesn’t help stop the tears in his eyes again, doesn’t stop the knock to his knees, or the trembling in his belly.

“Dick…Dick can do quadruple flips,” is half-sobbed out, “just like Nightwing and-and the old footage of Robin.” He wraps his arms around himself, hugging himself tight, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely, “then there was a new Robin and it was because Jay came to live with you. And how else could Batman pay for all the things he has? Where would he get all the technology? It just…it just all added up,” and his knees give a wobble, his chest hitching a little because they’re going to let him stay the night and then take him back home. This room will be a guest room again, all his things gone, like he’d never stayed at all–

“I’ll-I’ll never tell,” the little boy sobs, “no matter what happens, I’ll never tell! Please believe me, please!”

Jay sits up to take the hot chocolate from Alfred and look the crying little kid over. He sighs when Timmy covers his eyes and tries to hide. He side-eyes B and Dickie, has a silent conversation with his partners using facial expressions alone in their own Bat-language.

In a singular motion, all three of them turn to look at Alfred sitting comfortably in the slipper chair, his wizened eyes softening. The butler merely raises an eyebrow.

Bruce gives a firm nod since they’re all in agreement, and puts his coffee cup down decisively.

“Tim,” and Mr. Bruce is being gentle again, trying to be so _nice_ that Timmy knows what’s coming, knows what he’s going to say.

“I’ll go back home,” he sniffs, keeps his hand over his eyes, “I’ll never,” _hic_ , “I’ll never bother you again and I’ll never tell anyone.”

“Oh Timmy!” Dick’s eyes go wide.

“Now hold on a minute, kiddo–”

“Master Tim–”

“I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me. Please–!”

Jay’s eyes blow wide with shock and Dick’s mouth falls open. It’s Bruce this time that stands off the bed to kneel by the little boy and put both hands solidly on his shoulders.

“ _Tim_. Look. At. Me.” This time it’s firm, dark and growly like the Batman. There’s no question, it’s a tone that demands the worst criminals throw down their weapons and _give up_.

His eyes watery and face wet, little Timmy blinks up at Mr. Bruce and hastily wipes his face with his sleeve.

“There is absolutely _no way_ we could ever hate you, and nothing, _nothing_ is your fault, do you understand me?”

Uncomprehending, Tim just stares up at him with those dark eyes.

“You’ll go back when your parents are there, just like we’ve been doing until now. And when they need to leave, you’re going to come home and stay in your room. You’ll do your homework with Jay and me and Alfred. You’ll eat all your vegetables or no dessert. You’ll do your chores and keep up your grades, just like the boys.”

And the blooming hope makes him catch his breath, his eyes wide with it, his small hands come up to clench fists full of Mr. Bruce’s t-shirt.

“But _no_ crime fighting until you’re at least in middle school! Absolutely _none_ , Tim, am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,” the boy breathes out with a last sniffle, “yesyesyes I promise! I _promise!_ ”

“Good. No more talk of leaving, not ever again. You’re part of the family and that isn’t going to change, okay?”

His eyes are full again and it’s for the _happiest reason ever_ , and he’s nodding quickly because his throat is thick ( _Mr. Bruce called this his ‘home’_ ) and he doesn’t want anyone to change their minds.

Jay grins at him widely, swigging the last of his chocolate milk and giving him a wink.

Dick laughs out loud and snatches him from Mr. Bruce’s hold, holds him up off his feet even with a bandaged hand and bruises. “See, Timmy? Everything is _fine_ , and someday when you’re bigger, you can come hang out with me in the ‘Haven. I’ll _totally_ teach you to train surf.”

He wraps both arms and legs around Dick to squeeze back and laugh, too. He’s so full of _happy_ even when Mr. Alfred says to put him down, he needs to drink his milk, but perhaps a late movie night could be in order.

Jay doesn’t say anything when Timmy holds on the hem of his t-shirt while they troop downstairs and presses between him and Dick on the couch. He gets hair ruffles and some popcorn, nods off with a smile before _Coco_ even gets to the good musical part.

When he wakes up surrounded by everyone, the television off and the smell of coffee and breakfast wafting from the kitchen, when he does his chores and sets the table, gets the _best_ French Toast to ever _exist_ , when he gets to be in the banter around him, he thinks how _nice_ it is.

To be part of their family.


End file.
